


Folklore

by shibi



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 1988, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Viking!Jonny, Vikings AU no one needs, virgin!patrick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibi/pseuds/shibi
Summary: Jon can’t sleep, is too restless for the impending battle. Instead, he wonders the camp, slipping between tents and sleeping men with sword, shield and axe at the ready. It’s a pity, he thinks, that so many of them will be lost to the halls of Valhalla tomorrow. The battle is futile, the plans poorly thought out, and will be more poorly executed despite having the fortune of a wise man on their side. The only way he and his small band of men will make it through tomorrow is if the Gods will it.He’s about to head back to his tent when he sees a glimmer of white in the corner of his eye. He turns, catching the edge of a robe disappearing behind a tent. He moves carefully, seeking without knowing what he’s looking for.Or the Vikings AU no one actually needs in their life
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 5
Kudos: 109





	Folklore

Jonathon isn’t sure what surprises him more, the fact that the self-proclaimed heathen king is actually… king, or that the bastard managed to find himself a pagan priest on foreign shores. It’s an oddity for sure, finding someone that can speak their tongue in a land Jon was sure they hadn’t conquered before. But his people are voyagers and it isn’t altogether unsurprising to find familiarity where it isn’t expected.

Jon watches, paying little attention to the sacrifice and trying to figure out if the self-declared king is truly devoted to worship or if there is something else about the little priest that would explain him being alive while others in his village were killed. It surprises him that he hasn’t tried to run from their camp yet, instead he seems to wonder through their camp freely. The men seem afraid of him, dispersing before he can come near and not for the first time Jon wonders what this delicate creature has done to warrant their fear.

The priest is other-worldly, moving with a sinuous grace that speaks more of a hunter than being hunted. His face is painted white, charcoal blackening the skin around his beautifully blue eyes and the stain of bloodied fingers dragged across the centre of his lips and down his chin. A crown of twigs, black feathers and some herbs are twined through the curls of his hair. He looks like temptation and trickery taken human form.

Jon is mesmerised by him, eyes drawn to his lips as he starts to chant, praying to Odin and Frey and Freyja. Jon closes his eyes when the priest approaches, flicking the still warm blood of the sacrifice over them with deft fingers, all the while murmuring prayers under his breath. His eyes snap open when he hears a pause in the priest’s prayers, a sudden quiet falling between them.

The priest tilts his head, doesn’t continue his path, just stares at Jon for a few moments, not blinking. It’s unnerving being the focus of such a man. Jon feels as if he were as small as a bug under that heavy gaze, which contradicts the fact that he towers over the little priest. It makes him uneasy.

Jon doesn’t dare move when the priest dips his fingers into the bowl again, bringing them up to Jon’s lips and dragging them down. He now matches the marking on the priest—probably a blessing being bestowed for the coming fight, but it feels strangely more intimate than that, as if the blonde-haired priest is asking something of him.

When he eventually moves on, Sharp nudges him with an elbow, breaking him out of his reverie.

“Seems the wise man’s taken a liking to you, you lucky bastard.”

“Wise man?” Jon asks. That would explain things then—what use is a Seer if they’re tucked safely away within the borders of their own country, or away from where the battles are? Jon is grudgingly impressed by the king thinking to secure his loyalty, to ensure he guide them through battles to success and valour. But then he’s never sure how it all works—can the priest alter the future by speaking of it? Could their defeat be avoided? Could a death never come to pass?

Wise men are kept secret, he hasn’t heard of there being one for years. They’re usually protected by fellow holy men, but he imagines jealously would have seen him sold or bartered to this so-called king.

“Rumour has it,” confirms Sharp, nodding as they pull away from the crowd of people that gathered.

How the fuck did such a slimy prick manage to negotiate for a wise man, let alone keep him here?

Jon’s eyes find the blue eyes of the priest though the crowd. He tilts his chin back, both defiant and challenging. _Take me_ , he seems to ask Jon, but all Jon does is turn away and follow his men.

\--

Jon can’t sleep, is too restless for the impending battle. Instead, he wonders the camp, slipping between tents and sleeping men with sword, shield and axe at the ready. It’s a pity, he thinks, that so many of them will be lost to the halls of Valhalla tomorrow. The battle is futile, the plans poorly thought out, and will be more poorly executed despite having the fortune of a wise man on their side. The only way he and his small band of men will make it through tomorrow is if the Gods will it.

He’s about to head back to his tent when he sees a glimmer of white in the corner of his eye. He turns, catching the edge of a robe disappearing behind a tent. He moves carefully, seeking without knowing what he’s looking for.

He watches, follows, as the priest moves though the camp like a wraith. He’s ethereal in his beauty, fingers running over shields and weapons as he passes them, a light touch as if to bless them with strength. Or maybe he’s marking them for death? Jon has never spoken to a wise man and tends to avoid holy men as much as possible—they tend to be a little unstable in their devotion and speak in incomprehensible riddles more often than not. Jon doesn’t have the patience for it, but this priest… he’s alert, intelligence reflected in those blue orbs. Jon wonders, can a wise man be anything other than devout? Could he choose his own path?

Blue eyes meet his when the priest glances over his shoulder, straight at Jon. A smirk curls his painted lips, an invitation if there ever was one. Jon hesitates to accept because he’s uncertain about whether he wants to hear any words the wise man might speak at him. He doesn’t want to know his future.

But Jon follows where the wise man leads, not questioning the pull this creature has on him, only knowing that he _must_ follow. They leave the camp, the priest still moving near silently through the terrain on bare feet, wearing nothing but a gauzy white robe knotted at his waist that leaves little to the imagination. His face is still painted white and black and red from the ceremony earlier. It makes for a fantastical picture, as if the priest is leading him into another realm, another world. Jon finds that he wants to see this little priest unveiled, to see if he’s as beautiful and hypnotising without the evidence of worship painted onto his skin.

It’s not long before Jon hears the soft gurgling of water over rocks. He keeps his distance when the priest stops again, feet at the edge of a pool of water that looks as if it has been conjured from the depths of his dreams. The moon is bright, and Jon knows he should look away when the priest undoes his robe, the gauzy material slipping from his shoulders without effort. It stops short just before he is revealed wholly, and he looks again over his shoulder at Jon, meeting his eyes as he lets go and the robe slips down his legs to the ground. Jon doesn’t know what the priest is asking him, but he keeps his distance, doesn’t dare to move closer. If he were a lesser man, he’d join the priest, maybe take him. But a wise man can only be a virgin, the Sight disappearing when violated.

Jon’s eyes rake hungrily down the body of the priest. He is as beautiful as Jon has imagined—shows the strength of a warrior in the way the muscles dance across his shoulders, in the thickness of his backside and thighs as he moves deeper into the water. His pale alabaster skin shines in the moonlight and Jon suddenly wants to know what that skin would feel like beneath his hands, beneath his lips. The little priest is beauty beyond words, and Jon feels a hunger for this morsel of flesh bared before him unashamedly.

He watches the priest bathe, watches the water glide across his skin in the light of a full moon. Jon is hard but he won’t do anything about it. He won’t sully the gift bestowed by allowing himself to be distracted by his own desire. He watches as the priest turns toward him once more, making his way from the pool of water.

Jon doesn’t look away, mesmerised as his eyes follow the path of drops of water rolling downward as the priest leaves the water. Watches the water drip from his eyelashes, over blushing cheeks, down his neck and over rosy pink nipples, stiff from the cold, down past his bellybutton and then his soft cock.

The priest pulls on his robe once more, knotting it carefully at his waist while he openly appraises Jon in return. He thinks this little priest is hungry for him too.

Jon doesn’t move when his priest approaches. His face looks better without the white paint, his red lips visibly plump and lush now, begging to be kissed. There remains some of the black charcoal around his eyes, but it only serves to make them seem infinitely bluer, drawing attention to the depths of their colour.

He stops directly in front of Jonny. If they were any closer, they would be touching, and Jon finds he has hold himself from breaching that careful gap. His head is bent back, looking up at Jon, blue eyes considering the warrior before him carefully. He sees something about Jon.

“I am the past, present and future. I have seen all that has come to pass and all that will. Where would you have me look, Jonathon? To the future, as all before you have sought? Or the past to revisit loved ones now lost to you?” he asks softly.

Jon wants to tip forward when he feels the breath of his question brush across his lips, but he resists. Now is not the time for desire. “No,” he replies, eyes dipping to those perfectly shaped lips. “What I would ask for, you cannot give.”

“And yet, it is a gift I can choose to give,” he replies, a soft smile curling into his lips. “You have no desire to see the battles you will win, those you would lose? The wife you will have and the children she would bear you? To know if your name will live beyond your life-span?”

“No,” he replies, no hesitation as he meets those hypnotising blue eyes once more. “To know would to be cursed.”

The priest tilts his head and regards him coolly for a moment. There’s no surprise written in those fair features, only careful attention, as if he’s weighing Jon’s soul to determine whether he will be found wanting.

“You would consider such knowledge to be a burden?”

Jon shrugs but nods. “One which I would not be strong enough to carry, as you do.”

_Oh_ , Patrick thinks, eyes bright with intrigue _. This one is wise beyond his years and wields charm as well as he wields his sword_. He’ll make a fitting king one day, Patrick has seen as much, but without blood he cannot see much more. He wonders how this warrior-king will die, wonders if the Gods will provide him with a long life and a warrior’s death. One does not usually get the privilege of both, but he thinks this man might.

“What has brought you here? Why do you fight the battles of a king that is not your own? Do you seek your own glory, or the glory of a warrior’s death?”

Wise men, Jon thinks, always know more than they should and want to know more than they must. “The king has asked me to fight, and so here I am. Why are you here?”

“I have been won by many men,” the priest says, a sadness suddenly pinching the corners of eyes. “Passed from one conqueror to the next. I have been on these foreign shores longer than I have been home.”

A wise man is… rare. They’re usually killed or fucked so Jon has to give credit where it is due because this priest has lived well beyond many others with similar gifts and has managed to remain chaste despite his obvious desirability.

“Would you claim me should the false king die in battle tomorrow?”

“If you ask it,” Jon concedes. He may not want to know the future, but there are fates worse than being dragged around with Jon and his men.

The priest hums in thought at his response. “And yet you don’t want to know your future.”

“I could leave you, if you would prefer? There are plenty of men who would find your skill or body useful.”

“No,” he replies. “No, I do not think you would leave me to the fate of those men even if I asked you to.”

He’s not wrong, Jon acknowledges. He’ll claim this little priest regardless of the outcome of battle.

\--

“Where’d you disappear to last night?” Sharp asks as they creep towards the edge of the forest at dawn.

“Loki playing tricks,” Jon replies nonchalantly. Because he imagines that was what his interlude with the little priest was.

There is mist shifting between the trees, as if concealing them from sight. It’s an unexpected advantage and Jon, for the first time, thinks he might live through this pointless battle.

“Hmmm,” Sharp replies. “Nothing to do with that pretty little priest traipsing through the camp in the middle of the night half naked then?”

“Nope.”

\--

The king has died in battle. Jon might have known from his priest’s words last night, but he still finds himself surprised. This… man, had somehow dodged death so many times only to be felled by a single arrow to the eye socket before the heat of the battle had even been reached. How disappointed he must be with his own death.

\--

Jon takes his priest, slips away with him and his men in the middle of the night, the fading moon keeping them hidden from the eyes of lesser men.

Sharp and the rest of them seem a little confused about his insistence that they take the priest, but they agree anyway. However, they give the priest a wide berth as they travel to safer territory—the priest had helped them escape with his talents and his men are uncomfortable with the holy man in their midst. Surely he would’ve foretold the king’s death and had him avoid it? Or is it that he knew but didn’t warn him? Jon wonders again if the priest can only see the future and not alter it. How horrible to see death approaching and be unable to avoid it. He’s a product of magic and blessed by the Gods and Jon finds himself bemused because his men _fear_ the priest.

“You’re courting trouble,” Sharp tells him. “I’ve seen your eyes follow him. Are you going to kill him, or fuck him?”

Jon doesn’t know yet, so he doesn’t answer. He would prefer to fuck him, though. He can imagine the priest spread beneath him. Jon thinks that that is what the little priest is seeking, what he’d been asking for all those weeks ago when Jon had followed him. He’s asking Jon for release.

\--

“Why did you take me?” the priest, Patrick, asks Jon one night. They’re curled into the roots of tree, Patrick resting against his chest as Jon leans his back against the tree, a cloak draped over them both to keep warm.

“You asked me to.”

“Would you take my Sight from me, if I asked it of you?”

Jon presses his nose into his priest’s blonde curls before pulling away when Patrick shifts his head to look up at Jon, clear blue eyes questioning, begging.

“Yes,” Jon whispers as he presses a kiss against those plush velvet lips.

Jon can feel that Patrick is not practiced at this, at intimacy, but it makes the gift so much sweeter, to know his innocence, to know that he has been untouched by any other. Jon continues to drink sweet kisses from his priest, dipping in to lick into the wetness of his mouth, coaxing Patrick’s tongue into dancing with his.

Patrick’s touch is gentle, tracing the lines of Jon’s face as if in awe. As if mimicking their first meeting, he runs his fingers over the centre of Jon’s lips and down his chin as he says, “not yet.”

Jon will not have his priest tonight, but he looks forward to feasting on his flesh in the future.

“I dreamt of this moment,” Patrick whispers against his lips. “I have dreamt my life a thousand times over; I had thought myself known. But I feel cheated, my dreams are usually truth—all the pain and pleasure felt in equal measure both in dreams and in reality, but I find this reality is beyond my knowledge. It’s as if I’ve felt the sun on my cold skin for the first time.”

Jon is pleased that reality with him is better than the life Patrick has Seen.

\--

“Join me,” Patrick commands, curling his fingers at Jon in a come-hither gesture.

His men are pretending to mind their own business around their fire. They won’t be interrupted but nor will they be left unprotected. As always, Jon follows where his priest leads him, deeper into the woods until he hears the familiar sounds of water rushing over rock.

Patrick strips, quick and efficient and Jon cannot help but cup the barely-there swell of his hips as Patrick starts to undo the leather straps and buckles of Jon’s armour. He keeps going, pulling at the ties of Jon’s tunic before running his hands up over Jon’s chest, material bunched in his hands as he helps Jon pull it over his head.

Jon’s breath hitches as he feels Patrick’s fingers touch the warm skin above his cock as he unlaces his pants.

Patrick marvels at the sight. Sun-bronzed skin spread out before him like a feast spread before a king. He traces the hard lines of muscle and presses his mouth gently to the scars within reach. His is a warrior-king, hardened by battle but gentled by love.

Jon follows when Patrick eventually turns from him, twisting their fingers together to lead Jon into the cool depths of the pool.

They don’t speak, Jon taking his cues from Patrick, touching only when his hands are placed on Patrick’s skin, kissing only when Patrick pulls him closer to press a kiss to his lips.

The water churns around them gently as Jon lifts his weight, pressing them flush together. He rejoices at the feel of Patrick’s hardness against his own, of Patrick’s legs locking around his waist, of his arms wrapping around Jon’s shoulders.

They wile away their time exchanging heated kisses, touching and exploring one another as if they were worshipping at an altar.

It feels natural when they make their way from the water, Jon pressing Patrick down onto a cloak spread out at the edge of the water.

His priest is fantasy made reality, knees falling open to reveal the rosy red of his hard cock, eyes glazed with passion as he watches Jon with a hunger he’s never witnessed in a lover, nor will likely ever see again. He means to keep his priest.

He lets Jon look his fill before making a rather sneaky move that has Jon surprised and on his back in a single moment. Patrick is smiling in triumph, pleased with besting his warrior-king this once.

His fingers are deft as he opens himself up carefully for Jon. He expects that no matter the preparation this will hurt, Jon is as big as the rest of him is. He sits astride his thick thighs, letting out breathy sighs as Jon’s hands grip his hips tight, watching as he fingers himself open with the help of a little oil.

Patrick lowers himself onto the formidable girth of his lover, slow and careful as Jon holds himself back. They’re both panting with it, the air thick with their desire.

Jon lets Patrick rotate his hips experimentally, watching as the pale line of his throat is revealed when his head falls back with a gasp.

His priest lets out a surprised yelp when Jon rolls them until he’s braced over Patrick, his legs spread wide around Jon’s hips as Jon captures those sweet lips in a kiss.

He fucks into Patrick hard, swallowing his priest’s moans of pleasure. Biting softly at them in reward when Patrick arches his back and tries to meet Jon’s thrusts with his own. If he’s not careful, he thinks his little priest would try to consume him whole.

Patrick’s fingers dig into his shoulders as Jon sucks a kiss onto his neck. He feels Patrick come apart beneath him, feels his body clench tight around him before he feels the hot splash of spilt seed against his skin, feels Patrick’s body go languid and relaxed while Jon continues to fuck into him. It doesn’t take him long to follow and Patrick moans as he feels the heat and pressure of Jon’s seed spill deep into him.

Jon pulls out, watching as the come drips out of Patrick’s hole. But Patrick soon distracts him, pulling Jon’s attention back to trading lazy and wet kisses.

Hours later, when his lover is sated and curled up, a warm weight against Jon’s chest, he wonders if the Gods will be angry that he took a priest from their halls of worship and defiled him on the shores of a foreign land.

He’ll take his priest home, Jon thinks. The Gods will forgive him if he takes his priest home and takes him as his husband.


End file.
